Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
by Mizzy
Summary: Written for friedeyes for Help Haiti. She requested Dark is Rising, slash, angst and gave the prompt: Unusual job.


Title: **Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?**  
Rating: PG-13 (for language)  
Pairing: Will/Bran  
Fandom: The Dark is Rising sequence  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, alas.  
Summary: Bran's worked at a few juvenile and young offenders prisons now; he has restless feet but a hypocritical desire to stay planted, to have a home. This is probably why he transfers around different jails so much...

Written for friedeyes for Help_Haiti. She requested Dark is Rising, slash, angst and gave the prompt: **Unusual job.**

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Bran's worked at a few juvenile and young offenders prisons now; he has restless feet but a hypocritical desire to stay planted, to have a home. This is probably why he transfers around different jails so much; it's a guaranteed way to please both contrary sides of his personality. Bran learned quickly that it doesn't matter the location of a prison – inside they're pretty much the same, exactly like being trapped back in Wales with a bitter Owen and the bullying at school, except now he gets paid to be bossed around and have insults yelled at him.

At least being regularly transferred gives him somewhere else to be on his rest days. He can bear the deluge of A-shifts (8am to 8pm, and he only gets them so much because he's the only officer without family obligations, which always gets him quickly pegged as queer by the other officers – but Bran is always able to brush it off, because what's _queer_ compared to _white_ and _albino weirdo_ and _freak?_) for those free days to wander different paths of the world.

It occurs to Bran once that he might be running away from Wales; when the chance of a transfer comes up, even though the only Welsh prison available is private instead of government run, he takes it. It's a shame. He'll miss Rochester, where they call him the Ghost and it is almost a compliment instead of the insult it started out as, but Bran hates the idea of anyone thinking he's a coward, and that includes himself.

So now he's at Parc. It's South Wales, not North, but Bran's spent enough time in England to soften his Northern accent, and his softer attempt at a Mid Glamorgan accent is enough to lessen the strange looks he gets from the Gate staff as he waits for his Line Manager to greet him. Induction starts at nine, and Bran's there at the Gate for eight fifty-five. Bran likes to be early to things.

His Line Manager turns up after only a couple of minutes delay. His name is Bennett, Bran's is Davies; first names are reserved for the cons. Well, in official parlance, the _trainees_, but Bran can't disengage himself from what they really are. As long as he uses the correct vocabulary out loud and in his reports, he can't be fired for what he thinks in his head. Besides, even if he does get fired, he has plenty of other options, plenty of life left to live is another day and all that.

Bennett tells him about his assignment, Bran's to be on G1, one of the two young person units, and from the way Bennett flashes him a look of almost-sympathy, Bran can tell it's a troublesome wing. Bran doesn't mind. He's tough enough to deal with it; he's always had to be. Also, he'll adapt, he's been transferred to enough prisons to cope with change – Bennett laughs and agrees.

Parc's got more money than a lot of other Young Offender Institutes, and it's obvious to Bran from the outset. The few staff he has met seem almost cheery, which only happens in prisons where they have enough funds to pay enough staff so that Detail can usually squeeze in people's holidays where they want it, instead of scrabbling around for scraps of vacation in amongst the dull stretches of guarding trainees like at some of the poorer prisons Bran has worked in. The gardens are also immaculate, almost pretty. It's not because they have more money to pay for labour – the labour is provided by the trainees, after all – but more likely because they have more money to spend on seeds and fencing.

The place needs it. All prisons are the same, Bran knows, all lines, and greyness, and fences that seem so high until you've been there a couple of weeks and then they seem to shrink almost. Parc is greyer than most.

Bennett's outlining all the things Bran has to know, but Bran's heard it – or a variation of it – at least seven times before (he alphabetises them in his head to make sure – Brinsford, Deerbolt, Dover, Hindley, Huntercombe, Rochester, Wetherby) so he doesn't have to listen too carefully.

Except then something does get his attention.

Bran's a prison officer; been one for a good twenty one years now, and as a result he is very observant and quickly so. He can take in the details of a scene with one narrowed look. He had plenty of practise at school, of course – those glances designed to take in every detail provided him plenty of fodder for when he was avoiding their constant taunts (_freak_, _go back to where you came from_) and he could picture them all squirreled away somewhere where they couldn't be together, couldn't be that awful mob that threw things and called him names and thought him less than human.

So it's odd for him to have to take a second glance at things. Yet, Bran does. Two times, and then a third, and he almost takes a fourth until he realises he's fallen a pace behind Bennett. He hurries to catch up, but the image replays in his mind; the youth leaning down by one of the fences, clearly part of the gardening regime by the scruffy green tracksuit bottoms and dirt smeared grey t-shirt, looking up from his trowel with interest, a curtain of brown hair slanting over his blue-green eyes, an almost knowing expression on his young face.

Bennett enquires whether he's in a union; Bran is, but he lets Bennett witter on about the POA and the PCS and PSU animatedly, because then his brain is free to wander, and it's obviously wandering straight into a cloud cuckoo lala land where time travel and magic are real and obviously he was childhood friends with Peter Pan. Wait, so that would be Never Never Land.

Bran shakes himself a little to clear his head, and it has the dual effect of both clearing his brain a little and of making Bennett smile. Obviously Bran's head shake was appropriate; Bran covers up his own confusion by smiling back and following Bennett into the Security department for his talk on jail security and how to use his keys the prospect of having the talk _again_ would bore Bran, but he finds he's anxious that it's done, and done quickly, so he can investigate just why his childhood friend Will Stanton – who must be over 40 years old too – is one of the inmates at a Young Offender's and Juvenile prison, maximum age 21.

The key talk is given to Bran by the Head of Security, a Governor grade manager, in a pressed suit and with a pressed mouth. It looks like Governor Markham would tear in two if he smiled; his skin is like crinkled paper. Bran doesn't listen to what Markham is saying. He's conscious that Markham's aware of his disinterest, but he can't bring himself to focus.

One fragment of Markham's bored drivel gets his attention. If Bran knows any of the inmates, he should fill in a form to declare it, otherwise if the connection is found out later – and Bran hadn't filled in a form – than his job would be forfeit. The first thing Markham said on meeting Bran was that he had been in the service for over thirty years, and that experience is clearly illustrated when Markham raises one bushy eyebrow at Bran's sharp inhalation when Markham asks if he does know anyone.

Bran sheepishly tries to tell Markham. His hands are clammy, and he wants to rub the back of his neck because it's suddenly killing him, but he leaves his hands on his trousers.

"On the way in," Bran says. "I think I recognised one of the trainees on gardening detail." He feels hot, like he's blushing, like he has something to hide, and Bran knows that Markham recognises the sign of guilt as well as Bran himself does. It's infuriating, and makes Bran's cheeks warm further. He has nothing to feel guilty about; he's not hiding a thing, so why is his body responding as if it does?

Markham frowns, and his papery hands fly over the keyboard as if caught by a sudden breeze. He tilts the monitor – a large, clunky thing (obviously Parc doesn't have _all_ that much extra money, as the machine is clearly part-dinosaur) – and Bran squints at the images on screen at the one face that stares amicably out from the glass screen, and he points at it.

"Stanton," Markham says, and Bran nearly loses the ability to breathe, except he tells himself he's being stupid, and forces the oxygen in. "William," Markham adds, and the next breath Bran hauls in burns the back of his mouth like acid reflux.

"He-" Bran starts, and then falters, because he's being stupid, absolutely stupid, three hundred degrees of 's a juvenile estate; Will would be 41 now, Bran's positive. William Stanton can only be 21 or less. Markham's looking at him. His eyes are dark charcoal in his parchment face. It makes Bran feel nervous. He knows he can't say, _Well, there was this boy I met one summer well over twenty years ago, and I've always wondered, because some days of that holiday are just_missing_and I could swear I met him again later, but I can't remember, it's all gone, I don't know, I don't remember anything_. He struggles for a lie under the almost accusatory look of Markham; when he finds the lie his brain quietens. "His father killed my dog."

Markham blinks slowly. "Apples don't fall far from the tree in this place," Markham intones. He looks curiously at Bran. "But you've worked at enough of these establishments to know that, eh?" he adds, almost jovially before sliding back into giving the rest of the security drivel.

Bran doesn't listen. Markham left the display of faces on the screen. William Stanton indeed – it's Will Stanton, the Will Bran knew so many years ago, and yet how is it possible? He's met some disgusting people over the years, kids who've murdered their families, kids who've driven other kids to suicide with their vicious tongues and fists and blades. He's heard things creepier than the nightmares of his childhood, even the one that reoccurs now, even the one where he's trapped in a mirror maze for ever (and ever.) And yet this, this is beyond imagining, because if immortality is possible, what else is real? Good things don't just exist in the world, that's something Bran has learned first hand, one of the reasons why he became a prison officer to start with, because there was darkness in the world, a lot of evil, and it had to be held back somehow. But if something good like immortality was real, then something evil probably lived to counter it, something dark. _Even now, scared of monsters under the bed?_

Bran's disgusted with his own brain. He realises a second too late that his disgust is showing on his is on his side, though – Markham thinks it's disgust at the array of hand-fashioned weapons he's waving at Bran. Bran forces himself to look at them. He's seen the like before; razor blades embedded into toothbrush handles, toilet brush handles snapped off jaggedly halfway, matchstick models of larger weapons designed for visual duplicity and play-pretend. He feels sick. Markham thinks it's purely because of the weapons, especially the ones with the points stained with the blood of the victims stabbed before the officers could withdraw the weapon. It partially is that. It's very much not. Bran is glad of his unusual skin for once; if he had normal pigmentation, it would have been noticeable to Markham that he had grown pale on seeing the name Stanton on the computer screen.

Markham dismisses him soon enough, realising his new officer is semi-distracted. Bran pictures the cogs whirring inMarkham's brain, calculating how quickly he can get rid of Bran. Bran's probation will be a good three months; he's cheaper during this time, so Markham will keep him the full thirteen weeks. Normally Bran would feel a little more secure, but Parc's a private prison, it's a whole new beast. He'll have to work to keep his head above water here for sure.

On his way out of the office, Markham makes him pose by the wall while a nervous admin girl takes his picture with a digital camera, ready for his temporary pass to be made. Bran leans against the wall, waiting for Bennett to return to the department and escort him to the wings – he's due to shadow Bennett for the rest of the week, with fundamental training like Fire Awareness and Diversity Training mixed in. Markham turns to go into his office, but something in Bran's tense posture convinces him otherwise; he halts in his doorway and fixes Bran with an inscrutable look.

"Stanton's on G1, your unit. If you have any problems let me know." Markham's words are firm, no nonsense. Bran resists the urge to salute and nods. A little of Bran's confusion must still be on his face, because Markham's voice almost softens as he adds, "I'm sure you won't. The watchman does like to keep to himself, we don't have trouble with that one."

Bran almost falls, even though he's stood with his back against the wall. His heart is suddenly pounding fast, he can hear it in his ears. His voice falters. "Watchman?"

"It's what the boys call William Stanton. Watchman. Probably because he's in for being a lookout." Markhamhesitates like he's about to add more, but he nods jerkily and disappears inside his office door.

Bran stares at the door and thinks _watchman_ until Bennett reappears.

The week of induction passes quickly. Bran makes no friends amongst the other officers; he doesn't expect to. His accent doesn't hold up well under scrutiny; he lapses into something that's somewhere in the middle of Welsh and English and it comes out stilted. The staff look at him sideways, and stop talking when he comes into the room, but again, it's expected. They may not be friends, but they respect him, especially when they find out he'll trade shifts to undesirable times. Bran doesn't mind missing public holidays or weekends – as long as he does his 39 hours, he gets his time of freedom to tramp around the countryside or potter around his new flat, he doesn't care how he gets them in.

He also somehow manages to spend the whole week on G1 but curiously not seeing Will- Stanton- the watchman-_Peter Pan_- whoever- again. It's a mystery. Bran almost thinks he completely imagined the whole thing. It sits well on the nagging feeling that he's going quietly insane, until his first shift starts post-induction and he's opening the cells to take them to breakfast, and there Will- Stanton- the watchman- oh, _whoever_. Him. _Him_. Bran gets annoyed and mentally settles on Stanton. Stanton is amongst the boys, taking the back of the queue. Bran makes a note in his head to check to see if Stanton was maybe in the hospital, because he wasn't on the ward. Bran would know, he's been doing nothing but look, edging uncertain looks at all the trainees until they're now actually quite scared of wasn't his intention but that side effect is pleasing.

Stanton's there now, sidling in with the rest of the trainees. They're raucous, loud and as caustic as Bran knew they would be, but somehow – with Will, no, with _Stanton_'s presence behind them – the G1 trainees are more kids who go quiet when an adult comes amongst them, Bran thinks idly.

Bran keeps his face composed – no need to freak out the trainees by letting his slowly growing insanity manifest on his already unusual person – but the control is hard when Stanton passes by him, as if to ignore him, except the cheeky bugger turns his head and _winks_ at Bran, a cheeky smile sliding on his face, like he is in on a joke Bran will never be in on. Indignation flares up hard in Bran's gut, but the boys are all behaving; Bran can't even release his ire in the form of shouting at them. For once the G1 trainees are streaming almost quite happily out of the building and into the yard. Bran follows the procession, and if he yanks the keys harder in the locks he closes following them and hurts his own hand, he isn't going to admit to himself why he is so riled.

He can't explain it. Stanton's cocky. Even at breakfast, Stanton collects his plate and shoots Bran a challenging look through the curtain of hair over his face. Bran blanches but refuses to wither from it. Stanton tires quickly of the game, and starts talking to some of the trainees he's next to, in a low and urgent tone. Bran starts to move closer, to listen. He can't hold back the _want_ he has, to go over, to hear what they're saying, to hear Stanton's voice – but a hand on his ribs holds him back. Bran turns worried eyes to his captor – all thoughts of his control and restraint training temporarily fleeing his mind, so if it's a trainee he's _screwed_, if he can't get them into the goose hold properly the prison would be sued to high heaven – but it's just Bennett.

Bran frowns, confused. Bennett shakes his head, and Bran settles back against the wall, trying his very best not to look confused. He's not sure he's successful until he catches a glimpse of his own pale reflection in the silver of the kitchen – his face is twisted into a sort of semi-grimace. _Maybe_, Bran reflects, _at least my face might freak out some of the trainees_.

Bennett shuffles closer. Bran knows the rumours are already circulating, prisons are incestuous places, gossip spreads quicker than Chlamydia; someone who knew someone at another establishment will know Bran's sexuality, will have leaked it to the guys at Parc. He's wary at the way Bennett leans in, and is ready to reject the larger_married_ man – but all Bennett says is, "We give the Watchman space. That's how it is."

Bran is feeling foolish enough that his normal reaction to argue is subdued. He nods. "At all times?"

"That's how it is," Bennett repeats before moving away, like it's a codeword. Maybe, Bran thinks, it's a magic word and he can speak it and be free. _That's how it is_.

Bran doesn't realise he held his breath after saying that until it rushes out, and the disappointment hits hard – he's still there, trapped in his prison uniform, watching sinners eat. He really should stop believing in magic, because if it's real, it has no intention of rescuing Bran Davies, none at all.

#

Days turn into weeks. Bran passes his probation to Markham's visible surprise, but there's been no incidents, and Bran's only contact with Stanton has been those infuriating winks every morning before breakfast. Bran's blooming insanity has settled into the knot of a vine curling around the base of his spine and is showing signs of not growing any further; his rationality has finally won the battle in his brain, declaring Stanton to be a cocky bastard and it's _just_like Will to make a woman give birth to a convict. Will was a crappy friend (who stays a summer, lets your dog die, and then maybe comes back another time except maybe not, anyway?) so he would naturally be a crappy father-

That thought hurts Bran for reasons he can't even understand, so he decides to push it away, like he's doing with the nightmares. They come at the start of every new prison job, fast and furious. The prisoner-fashioned weaponsMarkham showed him in his security talk flash before his eyes, dripping with blood, before morphing into a sword, a crystal sword, that slices across his belly. An old lady somewhere behinds him tells him he's not ready, he never was, and she takes the sword away. Bran puts his hands out but his intestines fall through despite his best change into snakes, that roll into one large snake, that looks him in the eye and tells him, _You were a king_. The snake disappears into a burst of static with an explosion that's so loud the tinnitus is deafening, except the pitch of the tinnitus falls lower, lower, and then it's like echoes of someone singing, someone singing in the mountains, and a boy is showing him his wrist, a crossed circle burned into wind-weathered skin, and he's saying, _You chose this chose to forget_ and then the boy leans in closer, and it's Will, Will Stanton, fourteen years old and round-faced and yet his eyes look so old, and his hands are withered like old apples as they pull Bran towards him, towards those old blue-green eyes, and they fall into darkness, Will's mouth so close to his own he can feel the warmth, he can breathe Will's air, he can-

Bran's dream never lasts any longer than this. He always wakes up disappointed, achingly hard and unable to do anything but take the coldest of cold showers, and sink into the biting cold water until the water feels like shards of glass raining down on his back.

The nightmares always wake him too early, even for an early shift; he watches old movies on VHS, and once manages a nap, waking to the sounds of Vivien Leigh crying that _tomorrow is another day_ and it is, except it's just the same, every day's identical, he's growing up and old and not going _anywhere_- The panic makes him throw burns the tape instead of explaining to himself why the idea of a thousand bland tomorrows is so terrifying.

When his life changes, it happens on a Tuesday. Bran has no prior knowledge on the Monday of it being about to happen – he finds out on the Tuesday. He's not surprised; while he's dismissive about the power of tomorrows, he's always had a practical side for the power of todays.

It starts as is starting to be achingly normal – the parade to breakfast, that _wink_. Stanton moving easily now amongst all the trainees, not just the G1 crew, floating in between the obvious cliques and crews and nobody stops 's how it is.

After breakfast, he takes the younger ones to the education classroom, and the roster put him on regimes this morning so he heads over to the gardening shed. Stanton's standing amongst the group of trainees. When he sees Bran he smiles. It's a creepy smile. Bran doesn't like it, doesn't like _him_. He's paired with Officer Jones from is often partnered with Jones – he thinks it amuses Detail to pair the blackest most homophobic officer on the staff with him, Bran snorts inwardly, the gay ghost. All those labels, polar opposite flags. White and black, straight and gay. Stanton looks directly at Bran after putting his hands around the handle of a lawn mower. _Light and dark_, Bran thinks. _Life and death_.

It's all going swimmingly – Bran manages to leave Stanton to Jones, and stays with the group weeding around one of the Work's buildings, so doesn't even have to look at Stanton's excessively cheerful face for most of the time because he's off mowing the grass beside the walkway. Except the two groups slowly merge, and without knowing how, Bran finds himself alone on a small grass island with Stanton.

When he realises it, Bran feels suddenly wrong, like his skin is too tight, like Stanton can somehow kill him with his smiling gaze. Except, no, Stanton's so close, he would put his large hands around Bran's throat. Bran would kick and scream but probably go quietly, in the end. Bran flickers an uncertain glance down at Stanton's hands, and he freezes – Stanton's wrist is exposed, and there's a scar. It has the telltale ridges of it being a burn. It's in the shape of a circle with a cross.

Stanton has exactly the same burn scar in exactly the same place Will did. The wind is roaring in Bran's notices where Bran's gaze is lying.

"Birthmark," Stanton says softly, with a disarming grin. His body tenses as if he's about to move.

"Liar," Bran returns harshly, before he can stop himself.

Stanton pauses in his movement. He turns his head and looks at Bran's face impassively. "We all have our scars," he says, obliquely.

Bran can hardly breathe again – the insanity curled around his spine has leeched into his nervous system, sending spasms through his body, yet he remains upright because it's all clearly in his head. The trainees are good at mind games – Bran's been through a day of training called the Derwent Initiative, which reveals just _how_ good they are at wrapping you around their fingers – so it could all be just a really big mindfuck to reduce Bran into a quivering wreck and get rid of another prison officer.

But whoever Stanton is, even if he _is_ Peter freaking Pan, well, it was like his father used to say. You didn't get in prison for doing the right thing.

Unfortunately, in Bran's perspective, Stanton seems to take that odd exchange as _permission_or something to talk to him. He says hello during lunch time, asks him the time later on just before dinner, and it's during dinner thatStanton asks to be excused early to his cell. Bennett agrees and Stanton _says_ something to him, leading to Bennett beckoning Bran over. Bran's heart sinks, but he does his job.

They stay quiet on the way through the labyrinth of gates to G1. Bran is glad of it. Except as they come into the block and nod a greeting to the OSGs on duty (officially it stands for Operational Support Grade, unofficially they're known as _Open and Shut Gates_ because that's all they do) Stanton just starts talking.

"I requested G1. You know why?"

Bran knows from his Derwent Initiative training that cons worked you up, made you more pliable, by getting you interested in them, asking you questions, making you more vulnerable. They advised not answering.

Unfortunately, Stanton took the non-answer as permission to continue. "It's older than E1. E1's new. Doesn't have any blind spots."

Bran only registers what Stanton is saying too late – E1 doesn't have any blind spots. G1 _does_.

It's one of the original blocks of the prison, and wasn't designed with security cameras in mind – it was designed to have an OSG and an officer at either end of the L. But the end room is just a store room, and the cameras are positioned wrong – there is a blind spot just at the bend, which Stanton illustrates when he turns and shoves Bran into it.

Stanton's elbow is in the hollow of Bran's neck. He's pushing, hard enough so Bran can't move, but not so hard he can't breathe. He's confused by the attack – Stanton could have just have easily blindsided and hurt him earlier in the gardens, Bran clocked an easy three blind spots in the curves of the building, so why is this happening _now_?

"I could do whatever I wanted to you," Stanton says, "and no one would ever know."

Bran knows he should be horrified, knows he should be flashing back to weapons made of toothbrushes and razors, but even though he's slowly running out of oxygen, he's oddly calm. Stanton senses it and slightly eases the pressure."I would know," Bran says.

Stanton drops him at that exact moment, and the look on his face- Bran can't describe it. It's exactly how he imagines he looked at the moment he discovered Cafall's bloodied body, although he can't be sure, his memory's that shoddy even that precious memory feels diluted. "You would know," Stanton repeats, quite distantly. His eyes are slightly unfocussed. Bran's disturbed not by the way Stanton's eyes flicker to Bran's mouth, but by the way his heart quickens. They're in the blind spot, the cameras can't see, there's no one around, he could spin Stanton around, push against the wall, take that pink mouth for his own-

Even though Stanton's pupils are wide, his face slightly flushed, his entire body language poised in welcome, Bran stumbles into the path of the cameras, only slightly shaken. Stanton's under his custody, under his care, it's ridiculous, he's nothing better than those under his charge.

Stanton lowers his head. His hair obscures his face, but he is smiling under the shadow of his fringe. "You can't be imprisoned for your thoughts."

Bran closes his eyes for a moment, steadies his breathing, and when he opens his eyes they're flint-hard. "You wanted to go back to your cell. Move."

Stanton stretches, almost cat-like, posing his body in invitation against the wall for a moment, before shaking his head and emerging out into the safe path of the camera and walking away from Bran towards his cell. Bran follows a secure couple of paces behind.

"You know why they call me Watchman?" Stanton's back on steadier ground with the question. Bran shrugs as he passes Stanton to unlock the cell. Stanton smiles easily at Bran as he passes him to go into his barred room. "It's because I watch people. I've been watching you."

Bran turns the cell key in the lock with a sharp twist of his wrist. Stanton's smile falls, and his face turns serious as he sits down on his bed, hands stretched behind him, like he's not in a jail cell, he's lounging on a beach in the sunshine.

"I've been watching, and I know. Your memory's slipping away, isn't it? You barely remember anything any more."

He knows he should leave, but Bran is frozen, hypnotised by the words. Stanton's stare is softer now, somehow cloyingly sympathetic, and Bran wants to run, wants to hide, but the truth of the words are there, are clear.

It's true. He's tried to pretend his life only has holes in during his childhood, but it's like those spots are infected and they're growing, seeping through his memory and claiming bits for itself.

The truth is soft and certain, like light in the morning coming through the gap in the curtains, waking him from his nightmares. He doesn't have restless feet at all, he _hates_ moving, he wants a home, a proper home, that hut in Wales where Cafall was glued to the floor, and Bran loved Cafall, loves him still, but he can't remember what he looks like, how he sounded, how he felt in Bran's arms. He transfers prisons because that's the only way he knows he can get the refresher training regularly enough for his mind to cope with and hold onto, because everything else is falling away.

There's a thousand things that Bran wants to say. He settles on, "What's it to you?"

Stanton's smile takes on a bitter cast. "It's my fault."

"Your fault-" The words stutter out, and it's all confusing and strange, and the next words come out like diarrhoea, he can't pull them back, "You _are_ Will Stanton. My Will Stanton."

"_Your_ Will?" Stanton- Will- says. He doesn't deny it though. Instead he jumps off the bed and moves closer.

"How can you be-" Bran struggles with the words. "You're the same age as me."

Stanton shakes his head softly, inexplicably says, "You always say that," in a soft, fond, exasperated tone that holds other notes that Bran's heart actually goddamned _twitches_ at. And Stanton, _Will_, he's crying, he's actually crying and Bran can't look away from this train wreck of an inmate, this Peter Pan figment of his childhood because Will can't be real.

But he is real, he's close enough that Bran can reach through the bars and trace that sign of fire burned into Will's skin. The contact makes Will sigh. It's not a sigh of exasperation.

"I wish, I wish, I wish you would remember this." Will's fingers close around Bran's wrist in return. His tanned fingers look like stripes of shadow on Bran's white skin. "But a hundred times and you never do."

"A hundred times?" Bran doesn't understand. Will's not Will, obviously, he's just Stanton, Will's son, and he needs the psych ward, that's the only possible explanation. But still, despite his training, Bran can't move away. His whole universe is those two fingers around his wrist, embedded into his skin. It's like he's been cold his whole life and only now has some sort of warmth even started to invade his body, and that warmth is Will, Will Stanton, the boy on the hills, who's indelibly patchworked into Bran's memory of a bittersweet summer, bitter because he lost his best friend (Cafall), sweet because of his first friend, his first real friend, who saw him for who he was, who loved him for who he was, and is now standing in front of him, immortal and completely off his rocker, and then – for these thoughts – it doesn't feel too strange when Will leans through the bars and steals the air by stealing a kiss.

The kiss warms him. As far as he can remember, Bran's never actually been kissed before. His body responds as if it's something familiar, though, which disturbs him, so he holds his head back, looking warily at Will like he'll kick him if he tries anything again. His body puts up a weak protest and sinks into submission.

Will smiles, almost as if he is tired. "Bran," he says, in a curious tone. "How many prisons have you worked in?"

"Seven," Bran responds automatically.

"Name them?"

"I shouldn't," Bran answers, vaguely. He isn't quite sure why. "Because. You might know someone from them."

"Humour me."

"Brinsford, Deerbolt, Dover, Hindley, Huntercombe, Rochester, Wetherby."

"In what order?"

Bran can feel the anger rising in him, he can't quell it down – he jerks as if to move but Will's hand is now fully around his wrist.

"I don't have to answer you-"

Will's face is hard. "What order."

"Brinsford, Deerbolt, Dover, Hindley, Huntercombe, Rochester, Wetherby, Alphabetical." No, that wasn't right."Wetherby, then Rochester." Bran glares challengingly at Will.

"Would it startle you if I said that last time we met, at Rochester, you remembered eight prisons? It's been declining by one every time." Will takes advantage of Bran's confusion to yank his other wrist in closer. It's like they're holding hands. It would almost be sweet if there weren't prison bars in the way, if there wasn't a camera probably trained on them right now and Bran's going to lose his job for sure.

"You're speaking gibberish," Bran informs him, except he isn't the only one speaking, Will spoke the words along with him. "This is ridiculous," he adds, and Will spoke those words too. He feels sick. "Are you reading my mind?" he whispers, and dies a little inside when Will mouths the words along with him.

"No," Will quickly interrupts, and if Bran could tape sadness it would be Will's voice right then. "No," he adds, softer. Will releases one of Bran's wrists, and Bran almost thinks he can escape, run away from this lunatic, but his hand cups Bran's cheek, and Bran's just as lost. "You say the same things every time, _cariad_." Will's voice breaks on the sentiment.

"I don't believe you," Bran says, his mouth dry. He wants to lean into Will's touch. He wants to throw up. He wants Will to kiss him again. He wants to disappear. He backs off violently, jerking his hand away, slamming too hard into the concrete wall.

The OSGs finally notice something's not right. One of them is running along the corridor, and Bran can't hear anything but the thump of his heart, and a voice from his dream telling him _You chose this life. You chose to forget_.One OSG grabs Bran by the elbow as he slides to the ground, the other raises the alarm.

Will ignores them both, and fixes his gaze on Bran until two officers arrive. They go into his cell and cart him out. His smile is almost a victorious one as they drag him past Bran. "When you go home," he says to Bran, "check under your bed."

Bran seethes and the OSGs have to hold him back and no matter what happens, no matter how many hours it takes to fill out the security forms to keep the management informed of what's going on, he's not going to check under his bed, no way.

#

Under his bed is a box.

Bran stares at it accusingly as if it's the source of all his problems.

He opens it in the end. It's not as if he could get any more confused.

The single occupant of the box is a photo. It's of him, about thirty years old, posing with a group of prison sign behind them says _Castington_. One of the officers, the one with his arm slung around Bran's shoulders and a look reserved for the Bran in the photo that is one of both wonderment but concern, is Will Stanton. Bran can even make out the scar on Will's wrist where his sleeve has rucked up.

Bran's pretty sure, when he racks his brain, that he never worked at Castington.

He stares at the phone next, as if that's the source of all his problems, and then decides that _now_ he can't get any more confused, he's at the limit of confusion for sure.

He calls Castington and the world slips out from under his feet.

#

So, obviously, he needs to resign. A prison officer needs a good memory, because sometimes they have to link things they see on their first day somewhere to an overheard fragment of conversation or a letter sent in by a loved one to a trainee, and make those connections _work_ to solve a case or stop a crime before it's committed.

If he can't remember one place he worked, let alone one photo, let alone the way Will was looking at him in the photo—Well, he doesn't deserve the responsibility and that's definitely how it is.

He dresses in civvies and gets the bus to the prison; he keeps his gaze away from the curious Gate staff, and clutches his resignation letter all his way to the Governor's office. He stutters some sort of explanation to his secretary and she waves him in. Bran's suspicious of how quickly he's buzzed in, but his suspicion just makes his headache worse when he enters the office and finds Will sitting on the Governor's desk.

And the Governing Governor is SO Bennett.

Someone, Bran thinks vaguely, should put an upper limit on confusion.

"Hello, Bran," Bennett says. Will slips off the desk, but holds back, clearly recognising how close Bran is to running, running away, running off as fast as he can.

"Are you okay?" Will says, almost brokenly. He looks smaller than he did standing in his cell.

"No," Bran says. "I worked at Castington. The girl on the switchboard remembered me. I don't remember. I'm 41 and I've lost chunks of my life."

"You're 51, you age well. Not as well as me, but... well." Will corrects. "And yes, you have lost chunks of your life."

Bran's brain almost gives up.

Will looks at Bennett sadly. "I'm sorry, Barney. Thanks for helping."

"Anything for you," Bennett says.

Will _looked_ at Bran, just for a moment, when he spoke the name Barney, as if it should mean something, but it doesn't. All Bran can do is stare. He doesn't know what to do. The world seems unsteady, completely slanted; he crumbles to the carpet. This is it, Bran thinks. This is how it feels to _actually_ go insane. He's falling apart at the seams. He can only remember seven prisons before Parc, seven, and he was there twenty (thirty?) years between them, so why can he only remember the three months of probation for each? Why can he remember the photo of Will, but not how his arms felt around his shoulders?

"There are things," Will says heavily, dropping down to the carpet to be at eyelevel with Bran, "that happened a long time ago, when we were kids." He's speaking like he's quoting something. Bran's struck by a sudden thought, like maybe he's quoting himself. Maybe Bran's heard this speech a hundred times already. It hurts like it's the first time."You had your memory removed. But it was such an important memory…"

_Yes_, Bran thinks. _Yes_._Something about a ship.__And three chests.__And a King._ He feels like he does when he's trying to solve a crossword, and he knows the answer, it's just on the tip of his pen, just waiting to come out. _Will's hand in mine.__His voice by my side. His mouth on mine._ He remembers the nervous feeling in his stomach when Will had him in the blind spot. _Our bodies moving together, we were happy, were we happy? Did that go away?_ The carpet's shaking, or maybe it's him that's shaking, Bran doesn't know.

"It's happening again," Bennett- Barney- says, inexplicably.

"I know," Will says, and it's desperate like a cut.

"This memory," Bran says, and his voice sounds so far away, and he's just a kid again, he is, he can feel it, that rush of youth, that feeling like the world had it in for him, that feeling like he could beat anything if he ignored the illwishers and the naysayers and just _lived_. "I can almost… I know I forgot something big. But only when I was a kid. Only-"He struggles for the words. "One from when you were there." Bran can't find the words and now can't even conjure up the image fragments he had managed before. He turns his eyes wide to Will, remembering something, at least."You said this was your fault!"

Will's lower lip trembles, but only for a second, and his face steels. Somewhere behind his eyes a door shuts – a decision has been made. "You had a choice, whether to remember something remarkable but live elsewhere, or to return to the human world with your memory removed."

Bran thinks about that sort of choice. He thinks he would want to remain in, as Will oddly put it, the human would he voluntarily have decided to give up his memories?

As if he can actually read Bran's mind, Will says, "We didn't know when they removed the memory it would do this to your head. We were naïve." Will's eyes darken. "_I_was naïve."

"Will-" Bennett- Barney- interrupts, but Will shoots him a look and Bennett quietens and says, subdued. "I can pull a few strings and get him in Thorn Cross."

Will doesn't look to Bran; he just nods tersely at Barney and looks back at Bran.

Bran looks back at him. His voice is raw. "Another prison?" He coughs suddenly, his throat aching, and when he pulls his hand away there's blood on it.

"You like prisons," Will says. His sudden smile is self loathing. "We've tried other places. Prisons work for you."Will's smile is bright and hard and it hurts to look at. "I've _tried_," Will says, sudden and desperate and fast. "I try, and I love you, but it's not enough, you keep forgetting, you keep _forgetting_, and I know it's not much of a life, but I'm doing the best I can. Watchman, they call me."

_Watchman_, Bran thinks, and it rings a bell somewhere deep in his mind. _I won't forget that_.

"Because I'm _your_ Watchman," Will finishes, still that strange, low, hot tone like he doesn't have any time left. Bran's confused, they have all the time in the world. "And I'm going to watch, I promise, I promise, I'll watch you until the end of days. _Bran_."

Bran's heart leaps. His vision blurs. His hands shake uncontrollably.

"It's starting," Barney says.

Will looks sad as he shuffles closer and cleans the blood from Bran's hand with his sleeve. He puts out his hand and Bran leans into the warmth and stays there for a long minute, and then, and then- Bran's not quite sure why he is so upset, but Will's presence gives him strength and he takes it gratefully.

"This won't hurt," Will whispers, and Bran's confused.

"It doesn't hurt," Bran says, and Will's _crying_ again, and Bran doesn't know why. He's not hurting, he just feels a little hollow, and he doesn't know why Will's crying, but it feels good how Will's holding him, Will, eighteen years old the both of them, and Will's going to hold him forever. Bran's eyes slide shut, he leans into the embrace, and-

So now he's at Thorn Cross. Cheshire's not too far from Wales, but Bran's spent enough time in England to hide his accent, and his softer attempt at an Estuary accent is enough to lessen the strange looks he gets from the Gate staff as he waits for his Line Manager to greet him. Induction starts at nine, and Bran's there at the Gate for eight fifty-five.

Bran likes to be early to things.

His Line Manager turns up after only a couple of minutes delay. His name is Smith, Bran's is Davies; first names are reserved for the cons. Well, in official parlance, the _trainees_, but Bran can't disengage himself from what they really are. As long as he uses the correct vocabulary out loud and in his reports, he can't be fired for what he thinks in his head.

Smith looks at him sadly when Bran voices it, and Bran thinks he had probably better keep his mouth shut when he thinks disturbing things like that. Seeing Smith sad causes his stomach to twinge. He vows not to upset his Line Manager again, and if he does, well, he can always transfer to another jail.

He whistles, happy with all the options of what his life could be even if this job goes wrong. Tomorrow, after all, is another day.

#


End file.
